Only theories can be given, since Plath did not leave a suicide note and she is the only person who could possibly answer this question. However, she did struggle with depression for many years, had many failed suicide attempts and had been prescribed an antidepressant shortly before her death.
Nikki Giovanni has written around 18 poems herself. She has also co-authored a few poems and written around 10 children's books. Petrarch has written poems and these poems can be found in the book "The Canzoniere". Jack Prelutsky has written about 55 poems to date. Log in. Sylvia Plath. See Answer. Best Answer. Sylvia Plath wrote poems.
Study guides. Q: How many poems has Sylvia Plath written? Write your answer Related questions. How many poems did Sylvia Plath write total?
What were most of Sylvia Plath's poems about? Who writes poetry without rhyme and meter? Who is the speaker in the poem 'Metaphors' by Sylvia Plath? How many children did Sylvia Plath have? How many siblings does Sylvia Plath have? How many times did Sylvia Plath try to kill herself? After how many days that Sylvia Plath's husband have left her she killed herself? How many times did Sylvia Plath attempt to commit suicide? How many children did ted hughes have? How many poems have Nikki Giovanni written?
How many poems has Simon armitage written? Why did Sylvia Plath commit suicide? How many poems has valerie bloom written? How many poems has Nikki Giovanni written? How many poems has Imtiaz Dharker written? How many poems did Petrarch write? How many poems did Jack Prelutsky write?
How many poems has Banjo Paterson written? How many poems has Dorothea Mackellar written? How many poems has Roger McGough written? Two years after her death, Ariel , a collection of some her last poems was published, that was followed by Crossing the Water and Winter Trees in and in The Collected Poems was published, edited by none other than Ted Hughes. I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it—— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin 0 my enemy.
Do I terrify? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident.
The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else, I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle! There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart—— It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. My poems Titles list. Sylvia Plath Follow. Like Enjoyed it Inspired Thank you!
Like Lady Lazarus. Like 74 Great Nicely written Thank ya Like
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